


Being There

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Phil Needs a Hug, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission leaves Clint down for the count, and Phil realizes that this sort of thing is different now that he has two roles in Clint's life. They've only been dating for three months (unless you ask Natasha), but those three months have changed everything for Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being There

 

“ ‘s pretty, isn’t it, Phil?” Clint asks, and Phil pulls him closer to his chest. They’re sitting propped against a large grey boulder that sits on an empty beach littered with white shells and driftwood. The moon and stars shine bright, casting a lamp-like glow across the rippling water and making crystal sparkles on the waves. It would be a nice place for a bottle of wine and a blanket.

Clint coughs and swallows a whimper. He leans his head back on Phil’s tattered shirt with his eyes closed and says, “Lakes like this were the best thing a town could have in the circus. A gift.”

Phil runs his hand through Clint’s muddy hair and down his bare arm. “You could bathe, so I bet everyone was in a better mood for it, huh?” Clint nods and goes limp in Phil’s arms.

Phil feels panic rising in his throat, so he taps his comm again. “Natasha, I need status on the boat. Now.”

“Twenty miles out, Phil,” comes the immediate response. “What’s happening?”

She’s driving the boat, and Phil has no doubt she is probably pushing it to its limit, but twenty miles means they still have at least ten minutes more to wait. Phil looks at the bloody bandage wrapped around Clint’s left thigh, and feels the cool, clammy skin pressed against his own. “I’m worried about secondary drowning,” he answers. “His color’s bad and he’s coughing a lot. Blood loss from the leg wound isn’t helping. Just push it, Natasha.”

She doesn’t answer, and she’s probably annoyed at the prodding, but Phil just needs to do _something_. Clint tenses again in his arms, coughs hard, and is left shaking in pain despite Phil trying to keep him still while he coughs. “I’ve got you,” Phil whispers anyway.

“Phil,” Clint chokes out, and the sound of Phil’s name is desperate, uncertain, like Clint’s not sure if Phil can hear him.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. Nat will be here soon with help. Stay with me,” Phil answers, pleads.

He’s held injured agents before, waiting for help, but he hasn’t pled with them, hasn’t tried to pour his need for them into his voice, tried to hold them together for purely selfish reasons. He does now.

He’s selfish about Clint. He always has been, even before they started to ‘give dating a fighting chance’ as Clint said about three months ago in the hallway of Phil’s apartment. Natasha had chimed in from the living room, “You morons have been dating for years!” and she’s kind of right, except now they’re kissing and having sex, which is a nice addition to the relationship.

Three comfortable, easy months isn’t long enough. He needs more time. He _wants_ more time with Clint like he’s never wanted anything in his life.

“You’re scared,” Clint says hoarsely. He twists a little in Phil’s lap, as if he’s trying to get comfortable.

“Yes,” Phil answers, because he made a promise the first time he held Clint safe years ago in an alley in Brussels that he’d never lie to him. “But Nat’s on her way with a med team. They’re coming.”

“And I got it,” Clint says, and this time his voice is thin and filled with air, a wisp of his usual brash confidence.

“Yes, you got it,” Phil says.

The data they needed to find at least ten AIM bases was on a drive carefully tucked in Phil’s pocket, the prize from taking down a team of AIM security and the man they were trying to protect. Clint took him out easily, but retrieving the drive itself meant tangling with a team of six AIM bodyguards, when intel told them it would be two at most.

That’s what left a bullet in Clint’s thigh and a six foot five jerk holding Clint under the water for twenty seconds too long before Phil could wipe up the guy he was fighting and take Clint’s assailant down with a bullet to the head. He shuts his eyes briefly at the memory of dragging Clint’s limp body through bloody water to shore and performing CPR while calling for backup. He shudders at the image of Clint vomiting dirty lake water for way too long and ending up passed out on the beach while Phil pressed a pressure pack from their kit to his sluggishly bleeding leg.

“I’m just _tired_ , Phil,” Clint says, and the hand he has on Phil’s hand drifts down into his lap.

Phil swallows and shifts Clint in his lap so he can get a look at Clint’s face, shifts him so that he’s leaning sideways against Phil and puts his hand under Clint’s pale chin. Clint’s eyes flutter open. His normally kaleidoscope eyes are dark with pain and exhaustion. “Stay awake, Clint,” Phil demands, and he brushes Clint’s cheek with his thumb.

Clint nods and Phil tucks Clint’s head under his chin. “Talk to me, Clint,” he says and he knows that the water clearly still in Clint’s lungs won’t make it easy, but maybe a little work will keep him lucid until the boat arrives.

Clint coughs against Phil’s shirt and nods weakly. “I want to go home,” he whispers, and it turns into another cough that Phil can feel in his own chest. “Your home,” Clint adds weakly. “I don’t have one, really.”

This has always puzzled Phil, so he asks, “Why don’t you? I mean, SHIELD pays you enough to have a place.”

He imagines an apartment owned by Clint for a moment. Imagines it would have high, vaulted ceilings, not much furniture to clutter things up, warm colors, wood floorboards, and plants. Clint loves plants and his cramped quarters at SHIELD are teeming with low-light requirement plants like philodendrons and snake plants on every surface. Even long ops that tend to make some of his plants wilt almost to death don’t keep him from nursing them back when he returns and keeping his place green. Phil imagines a well-lit apartment that lets Clint have a more diverse collection.

Clint doesn’t answer, so Phil tries again. “Why do you like the plants so much, Clint?”

Clint tries to laugh, but fights through a wet cough instead. “Easier than a pet, still lets me have some company, something to take care of,” he answers finally. “I like taking care of things,” he murmurs into Phil’s sleeve.

Phil says, “Me, too,” and Clint nods.

“You’re way better at it than me,” Clint says.

Phil cocks his head and brushes Clint’s cheek. “I kill plants like the plague.”

“Not plants. People,” Clint says. “Way better at people.”

Phil meets Clint’s tired eyes. “I have more practice than you. You’re getting there.”

It’s true, too. Clint didn’t really make many friends when he first came to SHIELD. He was so used to being alone that Phil wonders sometimes if it just never occurred to him to try. But Phil drew him out, and Sitwell did, too, dragging Clint to poker games and happy hour gatherings. When he was around people, he was good at them, harmlessly flirty, funny, and easygoing. Phil knows he has at least five good friends outside of Phil and Natasha, including Sitwell and May, who is his backup sparring partner if Natasha is away.

“Why don’t you have your own place, Clint?” he asks again, and watches as Clint clenches his eyes shut as a wave of pain from his leg sweeps through.

Clint breathes through his nose and then opens his eyes. “I was alone a long time, before SHIELD. Almost fifteen years. Too long,” he says, ending in a whisper.

Phil sees, then, and smiles. For all of Clint’s introverted nature, Phil knows he likes people. “Staying at SHIELD keeps people around?” he asks, and drags his hand through Clint’s hair again, rubbing his scalp gently.

“Yeah,” Clint replies. “I can always find someone to play MarioKart with at two in the morning if I can’t sleep. Cafeteria always has someone in it.” He pauses and adds, “I’m kinda pathetic” before coughing again, longer and deeper.

Clint gasps for breath against Phil’s chest and then stills, and Phil feels a tendril of fear start to burn like a wick through his body. “You said you like my place,” Phil says. “Why?”

Clint doesn’t move at all, but Phil hears him say, “It has you in it,” and then he’s quiet again, and Phil watches as he closes his eyes and his face goes slack. Phil hears the motor of the boat roar into earshot, and he looks up to see its light pass over him and Clint on the beach. A cloud passes across the moon, leaving the beach darker as Natasha and the med team approach.

“Clint,” he says, but Clint is passed out now, he knows. He presses his fingers against Clint’s neck and holds them there, feeling Clint’s pulse, too slow, way too slow.

**

They are uncertain, at first, and it nearly kills Phil. “Trauma and definite secondary drowning symptoms, surgery required for the leg wound and a weakened system” mean that Phil is pacing the waiting room at medical while Natasha sits quietly and watches as Sitwell, May and others come in to check the situation from time to time. They give Phil’s arm a squeeze and talk quietly with Natasha before they leave. Jasper comes back with coffee filled with sugar and cream and a box filled with doughnuts and fruit.

Phil eats and drinks mechanically, watching the door and ignoring any attempts at conversation; instead he’s thinking of his dinners with Clint, the way they never run out of things to talk about, the way Clint constantly talks with his hands and his eyes light up so easily. Phil had been a laser beam at SHIELD before Clint showed up, tight and controlled and focused on his goal of becoming the best, safest, most thorough handler the agency had ever known. He was on track for it still, but Clint had diverted the beam, shown him that he could have a life outside of SHIELD and still be the best.

When the doctor emerges from the swinging doors into the waiting room, Phil is at her side in a blink, but Doctor Henderson raises her hands as if to ward Phil off. “It’s too soon. He’s through surgery, and the bullet wound has been repaired, but we had to put him on a ventilator and he’s having trouble holding a steady pulse. I came to tell you so you’d know what was going on, but it’s still touch-and-go, Phil,” she says, and the severity of her gaze tells Phil all he really needs to know.

“Can I –“ he starts, and she nods.

“As long as you both stay out of the way and leave us a clear path to his bed on both sides.” She glances at Natasha and nods. She knows trying to stop either of them is pointless.

The hours drag by, and Phil refuses Natasha’s attempts to get him out of the room and to a bed. He watches Clint’s chest rise and fall with the whoosh sound of the ventilator, and he watches the numbers on the monitor like they hold the key to the universe. He supposes they do, he thinks in a moment of self-pity. Natasha presses a water bottle into his hands at one point, and when his eyes finally start to droop she puts a small pillow behind his head. He tries to keep himself awake, but she just rubs his arm and assures him she’ll wake him if anything changes.

Finally, Clint’s body holds a steady enough pulse and starts to stabilize, and the doctor herself insists on sending Phil away for a shower and at least four hours of sleep. He manages six before water fills his dreams and he wakes with a choking gasp. He throws dress pants and a shirt on and hurries to Clint’s room. Clint’s got more color now, the transfusions and warmth of the room making him look more alive, and Phil feels his body relax a little at the sight. He collapses into a chair and runs his fingers over the back of Clint’s hand.

After a visit from Fury and a plate of breakfast casserole and fruit from Jasper, Phil sits quietly watching Clint sleep. He thinks about trying to work, but he knows his concentration is shot to hell right now. Fury said he was putting Phil on leave for a few days and Phil didn’t protest at all. He knows that’s a sign of something different, and the fear still churning in his gut is another. He feels like he’s going to go tumbling over the precipice of a cliff if Clint doesn’t wake up, like he’s teetering on the brink of it now. He flexes his fingers, as if he needs them to stay strong, so he can hold on tight to the edge.

Since he’s on leave, he sits and watches, hands clasped in his lap and breathing even, matching the rhythm of the machine breathing for Clint. Natasha sits quietly and only watches, too, and they don’t talk. She goes and sleeps and showers again that night, but Phil stays, watching.

He’s replaying every minute he can remember of his days with Clint, from missions to late night dinners to long flights. He focuses on Clint’s easy smile, his ability to get himself into ridiculous situations, his love of animals when they run across them in the field, his casual familiarity as he cooked in Phil’s kitchen once they started hanging at Phil’s place. They’d only stayed overnight together a few times, though, and seeing Clint in his place was still odd. With every noisy breath the ventilator gives him, Phil catalogues their time together, holding it tightly in his head.

The next morning, they take Clint off the ventilator, and Phil and Natasha settle in to wait for him to wake up.

“He still looks like garbage,” Natasha says abruptly after they’ve sat for a few hours.

Phil nods because it’s true. The little color Clint has is an improvement, but he’s still too pasty, his cheeks are hollow, and even asleep they can see dark circles under his eyes. Phil rubs his hand some more, and tries to ground himself in the feel of Clint’s skin.

“I’m glad you two got yourselves together,” Natasha says after a few minutes. He looks over at her and she’s somber, and her eyes look sad and distant. She shrugs, and adds, “You didn’t touch him when he was hurt before.”

He looks down at his hand that’s still rubbing Clint’s. “I’m glad, too,” he says softly.

Clint wakes slowly, eyes moving quick under his lids, so Phil talks him through it. “You’re safe at SHIELD, Clint,” he says, and he tries to fill his voice with every reassurance he can. “Natasha and I are waiting for you to wake up. Come on, Clint, come talk to us. You’re safe.” He punctuates his words with a squeeze of Clint’s hand, and Natasha moves to his side.

When Clint opens his eyes and tries to smile, Phil sucks in a sharp breath and Natasha rubs his back reassuringly. “Hey,” Phil says. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

Clint nods slowly and says, “Hey,” before closing his eyes again. “Tired,” he says thickly, and he falls back asleep right away.

Phil tries to be reassured that Clint woke, but he catches himself wrapping his arms tightly around his chest and breathing heavily. Natasha wraps him in a hug and rubs his back some more.

“He’s going to be okay, Phil,” she says as she holds him tight. “He’s going to get better and you can be as close as you want with him through it this time.” He can’t think of anything to say, but her arms feel like a steel fence keeping him safe from the brink, so he leans into her. She holds him for a very long time.

Clint spikes a fever that night and Dr. Henderson explains that pneumonia was practically inevitable in this case. “We’ve got him on a heavy regiment of antibiotics, I’m putting him on an oxygen mask instead of just the line, and he’s exactly where he needs to be.” Her voice is soothing and low, and Phil thinks maybe he’s not hiding his panic as well as he should. He nods and gets himself settled in the chair again.

Clint’s not even lucid when he wakes again. “’m not sick,” he mutters into the oxygen mask, and pulls his blanket up around his chin. “I can go on,” he adds, and when he calls out for Barney a few minutes later, Phil frowns and calls for a nurse. He wipes the sweat from Clint’s forehead and neck while he waits, and drapes the cool cloth across Clint’s forehead. The nurse assures Phil that there’s nothing they can do except wait for the fever to break, so Phil keeps the cool cloth on hand all night, keeping Clint’s face clean and cool. He knows very well that it’s not doing anything except keeping himself distracted. He’ll take it.

When he falls asleep in his chair in the early hours of the morning, Natasha wakes him gently and shuffles him back to his office to sleep on his couch for a while. He’s too tired to protest this time. He wakes up choking again.

“You’re taking this one pretty hard, huh, Cheese?” Fury asks, and Phil looks over to see him sitting in Phil’s chair, working on something on the computer. Even Fury looks worn ragged right now, and he finishes what he’s working on with a click and turns back to Phil. “Doc says his fever broke an hour ago, just so you know,” Nick says, and he stands up, stretching and cracking his back.

Phil feels relief flood through his body and he swings his legs over to the floor and runs his hands through his hair. “Did I mention we’ve been dating for three months now?” he says, and he’s a little sheepish because he knows he never told his old friend. He’ll admit to being a little afraid of being told it’s a bad idea by someone he trusts as much as Nick. He figured he’d get around to it eventually.

“No you did not, as a matter of fact,” Nick says, and he quirks his lips in a smile. “I’d have to be a lot dumber than I am, though, to not figure it out. You two weren’t exactly subtle.”

Phil frowns. “We were discreet,” he protests. “We didn’t do anything different.”

Fury laughs and opens Phil’s office door for him, ushering him out. “Come on back to medical, Phil. You can practice being subtle later. I know you, you idiot,” he added as Phil passed him. He smacked Phil on the back of the head lightly. “You walk around for three months loose and smiling after years of being accused of being a robot and you think we won’t notice? Not much of a spy, are you?”

Phil sighs. “I handle them. They do the real work.”

“So I shouldn’t pay you as much as I do, huh?”

Phil suddenly processes the fact that Clint’s fever broke. “How long have I been sleeping?”

Nick looks back at him with a frown. “Almost ten hours. Doc said you needed it.”

Phil knows there is no arguing with Nick, so he just picks up his pace back to medical.

“Pumpkin Pie is not an acceptable Blizzard flavor, I don’t care,” Natasha says to Phil forty minutes later as they both spoon ice cream into their mouths. Melinda had shown up with Blizzards for each of them ten minutes ago, and even though Phil had been eating whatever healthy food Jasper put in front of him for the last two days, the ice cream tasted divine.

“Pumpkin Pie is an acceptable flavor for anything if you’re a red-blooded American,” Phil replied around a mouthful of whatever Dairy Queen was calling crust in its seasonal favorite.

“I like the lattes,” Clint says, and they both whip their heads around to see him awake and staring at the ceiling. “But not the Blizzards.” His voice is quiet, but it’s clear. He pulls the oxygen mask off his face and shoves it down to his neck.

Phil sets his cup on the plastic stand and leans over to kiss Clint on the forehead. “You have no taste in ice cream, though,” Phil says, smiling down at him. “You think birthday cake is an acceptable flavor.”

“It’s delicious,” Clint says, but then he coughs, ragged and wet, and it leaves him the color of the walls and sweating, and Phil presses the call button on his bed and wipes Clint’s face again with the wet washcloth he’s been keeping on the nightstand. Natasha slips the oxygen mask over Clint’s face and he closes his eyes and breathes as deeply as his cough will allow. Phil strokes his damp hair until the nurse appears and runs Clint through a few standard checks.

When she’s finished, Clint is asleep again. This is their life for a week.

**

Phil has lived alone for twenty-two years, and the order he imposed on his daily life forced _something_ to give, and that was usually his living space. He couldn’t keep it organized to save anyone’s life, and he tended to just stack things in various places and hope he could find what he needed later. His addiction to buying books didn’t help. The first time he stopped by unannounced, Clint told him his place looked like a library threw up in it.

Now Phil shoves books off his oversized couch as Natasha leads Clint to it. He is on crutches, but there is an empty wheelchair sitting in the hallway, and he’s grimacing from the effort of navigating his way through the living room. Phil helps him lay down, and tucks a soft wool blanket around his shoulders.

“Your place is a fire hazard, Phil,” Clint says, and even if his voice is still too airy, too weak, Phil is grateful it’s not punctuated by a wet cough this time.

“So clean it for him when you’re better,” Natasha says, and she drops a large blue duffel bag on the floor.

She had packed it for Clint a few hours ago when the doctor said he could leave medical as long as he had constant supervision for a few days. His leg bandage still needed regular changing, he was finishing a round of antibiotics, and he had regular breathing exercises he was supposed to do. Clint had protested, but when Natasha asked how he was going to get himself fed for the next few days he’d sighed and shrugged and said, “I’m not really hungry.”

That led to Phil throwing a pillow at him and pursing his lips. “My place. I have about ten weeks of vacation time saved up. Nick owes me.”

Now Natasha goes to Phil’s fridge and groans. “Phil. When is the last time you saw the inside of a grocery store?”

Phil opens Clint’s bag and shuffles through it. He finds the purple hoodie he’s looking for and helps Clint sit up to put it on. “1994, maybe?” he answers, and Clint laughs. This time it does turn into a cough, though, and Phil presses his hand to Clint’s back and rubs. “Sorry,” he says, but Clint shakes his head as he coughs.

“Fucking pneumonia,” he replies when the cough tapers off. “It’s kicking my ass.” He wraps his arms around himself and ducks his chin to his chest.

“I’ll kick your ass if you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself, Barton,” Natasha calls.

Phil’s not sure what she’s doing in there, and he’s not sure he wants to know. He sits down next to Clint on the couch and presses a kiss to his mouth. “Rest,” he says. “You’ll need your strength for whatever Natasha is doing the kitchen.”

“I heard you,” she calls. “You won’t get any of my tea if you keep that up.”

“She makes really good tea,” Clint whispers, and his eyes close as Phil rubs his hand.  

“I know,” Phil replies. “You can have some when you wake up.” Tea is Natasha’s ritual for calming. She says she does it for everyone else, but he knows it’s the routine, the method, she uses to get her own emotions under control. That she makes the best tea Phil’s ever tasted is just a bonus.

When Natasha presses a cup into Phil’s hand a few minutes later, Clint is fast asleep. Phil and Natasha sit with their tea, and then Phil has an idea. “Can you stay with him for a bit?” he asks. “I clearly need to do a grocery run, and I have one other errand before I get him moved to the bedroom and a more comfortable place to sleep.”

**

When he gets home, Natasha has tucked herself against the arm of the couch, one leg up and one on the floor, and Clint’s leaning against her chest with his head back on her shoulder. He’s balancing a cup of her tea on his leg, and watching the door. His eyes are pinched and dark.

“Hey,” Phil says. “You’re awake again.”

Clint nods, and Natasha answers for him. “His leg’s hurting. I gave him a pain pill and tea, so…”

It’s recovery. They’ve all been here, and recovery sucks. Phil knows it’s about keeping things around that are easy, comfortable, and calming, like favorite foods, good music, and a comfortable place to sleep. “I got a plant,” he says as he sets groceries down on the counter. He pulls a spider plant out of his bag and sets it on the coffee table in front of Clint, who looks up at him, and Phil sees Natasha smile behind her cup of tea.

“A plant?” Clint asks. “I thought you always kill them.”

“I’m counting on your help,” Phil says with a shrug, and Clint grins at him.

Natasha looks at both of them and sighs. “I’m leaving both of you. Phil has groceries and you have a plant. You’re set.” She stands up and stretches. “Get better, Barton. You’re pathetic when you’re sick.”

“Love you too, Tasha,” Clint calls, and burrows further under his covers.

Phil shows her to the door and pulls her in for a hug. She clings a little more than usual and he sighs into her hair. “Thank you,” he says.

She pulls back and smiles. “You bought him a plant.”

He squints at her. “So?”

“So I don’t have to worry about him so much anymore. I’m glad for it.” She kisses his cheek and waves, pulling the door closed behind her as she leaves.

Phil turns back to Clint and he’s sipping his tea and smiling, his eyes finally bright again. Phil goes to him and sits down. He runs a hand through Clint’s hair, rubs the back of his neck, and Clint leans into the touch. Things feel so different now, with Clint in his house and accepting Phil’s help and his affection. He feels like his apartment is changed somehow, but the only difference is that Clint is sleeping on his couch and there’s a green, leafy plant on the coffee table.

Phil exhales deeply and supposes that’s all the difference in the world.

 

 

 

 


End file.
